Millennium
by lakergal
Summary: When your average Apocalypse doesn't arrive as scheduled, drastic steps must be taken to ensure that the world ends correctly.


Author's Note: This is my first shot at writing in Pratchett's style, so please excuse the horrible inadequacies and just pretend that this entire monstrosity makes sense. Footnotes are at the bottom, but if all the scrolling back and forth gives you a headache, feel free to ignore them.  
  
Disclaimer: As always, Vimes fangirl I may be, but Vimes's owner I am not. I stake no claim to any of the characters in this story other than the imppets, but Terry Pratchett can have those too if he really wants them.  
  
----  
  
It was, as luck would have it, a miserable day from the very start.  
  
His Grace the Lord High Commander Samuel Vimes of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch let the door slam shut behind him as he blew his way through the main office of the Watch, his nose buried in the latest edition of the Ankh- Morpork Times. "Morning, Cheery," he mumbled as he made his way to the stairs that led to his office, neatly avoiding two chairs and a misplaced shield en route.  
  
"Morning, sir," the dwarf behind the desk near the entryway greeted him cheerfully, jumping to her feet to salute him.  
  
Vimes stopped and stared as all of her became visible. "Ye gods, Cheery, what is that thing?"  
  
Corporal Littlebottom shuffled from one foot to the other. "What thing, sir?"  
  
Vimes remembered a second too late that his corporal's taste in clothing was far enough beyond the cutting edge that the hideous growth exuding from her shoulder might have a perfectly plausible explanation. "The, err, thing that you've got there. You know," he added, searching desperately for adjectives that didn't involve the words gruesome or horribly malignant, "the, um, orange and blue...object perched on your shoulder."  
  
Cheery peered at the offending body part cautiously, much like Vimes did around corners when he had reason to suspect that Nobby was in the near vicinity. "It's an imppet, sir."  
  
"An imppet." Vimes stared at it. "Not a cancerous tumor, then?"  
  
"Oh, /no/, sir!"  
  
"An imppet," Vimes repeated with the distinct feeling that he was quite missing something.  
  
"Not exactly, sir." Cheery had the dignity to look embarrassed. "You're supposed to roll the Ps a bit, and stretch out the last syllable."  
  
"Oh, am I?" Vimes asked faintly.  
  
Cheery shifted uncomfortably. "It's Klatchian."  
  
"Most things tend to be, if you dig down deep enough," Vimes remarked dryly. "Err...do I want to inquire into the purpose of this imppet?"  
  
The corporal winced at his mangling of the pronunciation. "It's more of an em-php-paht," she told him. "Just like the Klatchian word for bathroom, but with a little more oomph to the end of it."  
  
"And I'm supposed to do the little bit with the spittle, too?"  
  
"It IS foreign, sir."  
  
"Right," Vimes agreed weakly. That seemed to have become Ankh- Morpork's excuse of the moment. I'm sorry, officer, I didn't mean to throw my knife at his head, but he was running at me and talking in a foreign way and how was I supposed to know he was just asking for directions? "And, err, what exactly does one do with it, Cheery?"  
  
"Do with it, sir?"  
  
"Yes, Corporal, most things tend to have a purpose." Vimes paused. "Except where the wizards are concerned, of course, but we'll grant them their eccentricies in return for not blowing up half the city every Tuesday. What does one do with an imppet?"  
  
"Um." The dwarf looked slightly strained.  
  
"Don't think I quite caught that, Cheery."  
  
"Nothing really, sir."  
  
"Nothing really?" Vimes stared at the imppet again. The imppet stared back. "Do I dare ask why it's perched upon your shoulder?"  
  
Cheery looked like she was about to faint. "Well, I thought it looked sort of cute, just sitting there like that."  
  
"Ah," said Vimes. And then, "I see. So you're just planning on leaving it there?"  
  
Cheery stared down at her feet. "That was the general idea, sir," she told him.  
  
Vimes nodded as if he understood. "Very well. I'll just be...err...going..."  
  
There was an uncomfortable silence as Vimes regarded the imppet for a long moment. "Captain Carrot is waiting for you in your office, sir," Cheery said nervously at last.  
  
The Commander of the City Watch visibly shook himself. "I'd best be off to see him, then," he noted, tearing his eyes away from the creature perched on his Corporal's shoulder. "If anyone comes in for me, tell them I'm extremely busy for the moment and show them out, and then after our dear persistent Mr. de Worde manages to talk his way back in again, please feel free to send him on his way a second time."  
  
"Err, where exactly am I supposed to send him on his way to, Commander?"  
  
Vimes closed his eyes. For a race with little regard for the written word, dwarves seemed to put great emphasis on taking everything as literally as they possibly could. "Let's start with the street and then go from there, why don't we?"  
  
Cheery saluted him as he turned and automatically climbed up the stairs* to his office. As usual, Captain Carrot stood stiffly at attention in front of his desk. Vimes sighed. Just once, he'd like to catch Carrot doing something impolite, like checking his watch impatiently or picking his nose. But no. Carrot probably didn't get boogers like normal people.  
  
The Commander of the Watch strode into the room with a sigh. "How do we stand on the crisis front, Captain?"  
  
At the sound of Vimes's voice, Carrot's body relaxed into its typical tense animation. "It's good to see you too, sir," he said with an urgent smile, "and I know how you hate hearing bad news first thing in the morning, but we had a bit of a crisis last night that really can't wait for you to...oh..." He stopped. "How did you know?"  
  
"Well," Vimes said tiredly, "it's been a while since I was forced to run through a snowy field in nothing but my skivvies while being chased by an angry maneating monster, so I figured I was long overdue."  
  
Carrot blinked at him. "I didn't realize that sort of thing was scheduled ahead of time."  
  
Vimes sighed again. "It was crunching** on the way to work. If there weren't a crisis, Fred would have been planted in the desk downstairs with a warm cup of cocoa and a big pile of papers to hide behind. It's not really that hard of a jump to make, once you think about it."  
  
"Oh. Well, sir, may I be the first to congratulate you on your powers of deduction and..."  
  
"The crisis, Carrot?" Vimes asked innocently.  
  
Carrot stopped in midsentence. "Right, sir." He took a deep breath. "Well, the Joravians are angry because a Xixoray decimated the Wall of Grand Beginning, and..."  
  
Vimes's head pounded as his brain raced to catch up with Carrot's words. "Wait, slow down," he interrupted. "/Who/ is angry?"  
  
"The Joravians," Carrot repeated patiently. "They're upset because a member of the --"  
  
"The what?" Vimes blinked at him. "Carrot, you may find it hard to believe, but I've not yet learned the family names for every single person in Ankh-Morpork. WHO is angry?"  
  
"The Joravians. And they're not families, sir," Carrot said kindly. "They're religious sects."  
  
"Religious sects," Vimes echoed.  
  
"Yes, sir. An offshoot of the Uurosaie religion, if I'm not mistaken. Their primary theological difference resides in the varying interpretations of a proverb that their prophet Vizoduol..."  
  
Vimes rolled his eyes. "Speak Morporkian, if you don't mind, Carrot."  
  
Carrot's brow wrinkled in response as he tried to condense hundreds of years of religious history and warfare into language suitable for a Vimes. "Um...they're fighting over a proverb, sir."  
  
"A proverb." Vimes felt his forehead start to sweat.  
  
"Yes, sir. The Joravians think that it reads something along the lines of, 'A man's greatest pleasure comes from what he places in his mouth.'"  
  
"I...see." He didn't, but that was all right. "And what do the Zooreezays have to say about this?"  
  
Carrot winced. "Xixorays, sir. You have to roll the X a bit."  
  
"Somehow I get the feeling I've already had this conversation," Vimes muttered. "Very well. What do the...Zeezohrees...think instead?"  
  
To Vimes's great amazement, Carrot actually blushed. "Well...the other end, sir."  
  
"The other end," Vimes repeated.  
  
"Yes, sir." Carrot wouldn't meet his eyes.  
  
"What about it?"  
  
"Well, err...they think that a man's greatest pleasure comes from..." Carrot trailed off. Vimes finished the thought for him.  
  
"What he puts...in the other end," he said slowly.  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Ah." Vimes paused, considering the situation for a moment. "These aren't Omnians we're dealing with, are they, Carrot?"  
  
"Oh, no sir! The Uurosaie is an extremely respected religion, even in Omnia! They say its roots stretch back to the third century!"  
  
"Ah." Vimes nodded in what he hoped was a sympathetic fashion. It always paid to be polite where angry deities with possible scores of thunderbolts were concerned. "And so they're fighting over a proverb?"  
  
Carrot nodded enthusiastically. "Well, at the root of the conflict, yes."  
  
"And in a more immediate sense?" Vimes kept his voice calm and even.  
  
"Well..." Carrot trailed off. "Well, in a more immediate sense, they're fighting because the Joravians think that a Xixoray decimated the Wall of the Grand Beginning."  
  
"Yes, I think I caught that bit before." Vimes sighed. "And how exactly does a fight over a Grand Wall thousands of miles away have any effect on the newly arisen crisis in my city?"  
  
Carrot looked shocked. "Why, sir, but the Wall of the Grand Beginning is right here in Ankh-Morpork!"  
  
"Oh, is it," Vimes remarked blandly, feeling his throat go dry.  
  
"Well, of course, sir! We're an extremely important city, you know, theologically-wise. I believe the last estimate placed it at something resembling two hundred and fourteen different religions had gotten their start here."  
  
"Fascinating." Vimes's tongue was beginning to feel quite hairy. "Two hundred and fourteen. Imagine that."  
  
Carrot apparently didn't notice the sarcasm dripping from his commander's words^. "Well, there's a bit of a debate over the last one," he admitted, "some folks not being sure whether Klakcorgrrarggh counts as a religion or not, or whether it's just banging a few rocks together. But I'm sure it will all be reasoned out in good time with both sides coming to a fair and equitable compromise."  
  
Vimes couldn't quite remember the last time he'd heard someone refer to a conflict involving angry trolls who enjoyed pounding granite slabs in their spare time as having a reasonable solution. "I see," he said slowly. "And so these Geeoahrvans are angry because someone put a bit of graffiti on their wall?"  
  
He was answered with a nod. "Essentially, sir."  
  
"Ah." Vimes felt quite faint. "There's no chance of this going away on its own, is there?"  
  
Carrot frowned. "I don't suppose so, sir. The Joravians and the Xixorays have been fighting for close to four hundred years. It's not the sort of thing that disappears overnight, no matter how well intentioned the participants may be towards one another." His face brightened. "But negotiations are ongoing and we hold great hope that they will be able to work something out that is acceptable to both parties in the near future."  
  
Somehow, Vimes got the distinct feeling that in Carrot's world, the negotiations were being held over a cup of cocoa and a nice singsong every Thursday night. "I didn't think so," he remarked sadly. "I suppose I've got to speak to these Jaarvareeoons, then?"  
  
"I'm afraid so, sir."  
  
"Right." Vimes cursed under his breath. This was the way it always started. "Well, in that case, we should probably be on our way soon." After all, he thought to himself, I don't intend to spend my entire day chasing after these theological buggers.  
  
"Yes, sir!" Carrot saluted properly and then ran to get his cloak. Vimes sighed as he gathered his helmet and his official Stick of the City Watch. It was starting again. He'd just finished with the last caper, and here it was...trouble waiting to bite him on the arse. Another thought occurred to him as he followed his second-in-command down into the Watchhouse.  
  
"Carrot?"  
  
The captain paused. "Yes, sir?"  
  
"Imppets?"  
  
Carrot blinked. "What about them, sir?"  
  
Vimes sighed. "Nothing, Captain. We'd best be off. After all," he added dryly, "religion waits for no man."  
  
"I thought that was time, sir."  
  
"Either way."  
  
------  
  
The most wonderful thing about Discworld is that the lack of chapters means each section can be as short as I want it. Expect the next one to be a bit longer.  
  
Next week, we visit dear persistent Mr. de Worde and discover his take on the situation, while Commander Vimes learns why it's not wise to upset a millennial-obsessed religious despot with an armed Apocalypse in his pocket.  
  
And now, on to your regularly scheduled footnotes.  
  
------  
  
* Well, not so much climbed as ventured bravely into the terrible unknown, which in this case consisted of mounting steps one through five on the edges of his toes, skipping over the sixth one with the giant hole in it from the time Detritus had a bit of an accident with his toothpick, alternating feet on eight through eleven in a kind of Morris jig, and then stepping down backwards onto the one Nobby had tried to fix so he wouldn't be thrown off into the next space-time continuuinuum again.  
  
** Like many great cities, Ankh-Morpork didn't get snow. The moisture in the air seemed to undergo some drastic chemical reaction on its way down, resulting in what most Morporkian citizens affectionately called "crunch."  
  
^ Or, being Carrot, simply chose not to acknowledge it. 


End file.
